


when you walk

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. And when John thinks of the battlefield, there are five:</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you walk

_When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._  
  
And when John thinks of the battlefield, there are five:  
  
  
 **I**  
  
Gun powder residue clinging to the pads of his fingers, embedded and hiding and growing underneath his nails like bacteria. His shoulder, straight and strong and no tremor, the shot is precise and true. John doesn’t blink, he doesn’t hesitate; his eyes find Sherlock from across the building, an eternity away, and all he sees is danger.  
  
Red and black, and Sherlock _needs_ him.  
  
There are a thousand wrongs that should be screaming in his skull and he has only ever killed once before; a young man, an accident, a life time of guilt waiting to happen. It fueled the limp in his leg, the crease in his brow and the grey of his hair.  
  
But he doesn’t - John doesn’t think about any of that.  
  
All he thinks is, _I will kill for this man._  
  
When he finds the dawning of realisation springing across Sherlock’s eyes it is beautiful. Something shifts then, amid the sirens and the sharp night air and the orange of a mandatory blanket.  
  
In that moment they become John and Sherlock.  
  
They are together, and everything is right.  
  
  
 **II.**  
  
John reckons if he really tried, he could probably just ignore the man altogether. Things get easier every time Sherlock loses it, each time he falls victim to the withdrawal of addiction - _both_ of them; nicotine and crime scenes.  
  
Even though he loathes these hours, these awful piquing dipping staggered moments, they are a part of Sherlock. Just as much as his violin, his furious mind, the pools of his face. And because John loves every part of Sherlock, (love is the only word even though it isn’t the right one, _it definitely is not the right one)_ he journeys through the bad days, is loyal right up until his knuckles creak from tension.  
  
Sometimes it’s so unbearable that he leaves. But he always, always comes back.  
  
There’s tea to be made, after all.  
  
  
 **III.**  
  
There are a few ways this could have gone down.  
  
If you’d have said morgue though, John wouldn’t have believed it. Only crazy people kiss in a morgue. Only _mentally unstable emotionally confused fools_ let Sherlock Holmes breathe dirty against them in the half dark, several small inches away from a dead body.  
  
But then, he is all of those things and more.  
  
Sherlock grips his hips with morbid surgical gloves still on his hands, the shivery squeak of plastic goes fast through John’s bones, but not as quickly as Sherlock’s fingers work through his shirt buttons. Not as quickly as John retaliates; pushes until he’s as far away from death as possible, until Sherlock’s taught back hits a filing cabinet and he thumbs open his own buttons so John doesn’t have to break lip to skin contact. How thoughtful.  
  
He’s coming hard and hot in a bloody _morgue_ , and it’s very disturbing - but not as much as the foaming sea in Sherlock’s eyes, or the heavily breathed promise of more, _more John, more of this_.  
  
They don’t speak about it which is just great, really, because John can't even _think_ about it much. They can just exist in this, their own private universe. Restricted access, all doors closed.  
  
It happens again and again and grows in violence, in hurt. Sherlock pretty much _implants_ himself into John’s skin, and John fists his hair as if he means to keep hold forever.  
  
And even though there’s The Woman, briefly, John isn’t worried. That’s just intelligence, just a match of unfathomable brain power than he can’t keep up with and doesn’t even want to. No matter how hard Adler plays with Sherlock’s head, she can’t touch the space that John occupies. That’s off limits, infinitely. Locked so chemically tight that even John isn’t sure where he is, which part or how much tissue his name is carved into.  
  
It’s there though, and that’s enough.  
  
  
 **IV**  
  
So Sherlock says;  
  
 _Take my hand._  
  
And John grabs it because he always does what he’s told. His palm is sweaty and slipping but Sherlock tightens his grip, guides them like he is _made_ to do.  
  
When they reach the reporter’s flat, John all but collapses onto the sofa and tugs Sherlock down with him, thigh to thigh, breaths synced. Slowly the man reaches a hand to his chest, feels and presses gently, as if there is something wrong. John wants to tell him that there isn’t, he’s fine. Something in the dry swallow of his throat tells him that’s a lie.  
  
John thinks about kissing him, except this isn’t the time or place. There will be enough room for that later, when this is all _dead_ and gone and they can just go back _home_.  
  
  
 **V**  
  
The carpet between his toes doesn’t feel right. In fact, John can’t really _feel_ it at all.  
  
The final battlefield is - well, it’s not a fight.  
  
More like a memorial; piles of letters litter Baker Street’s floor, condolences and unpaid bills, dust smothers everything and it even collects on his skin, between the hairs on his arm; steady, waiting to be disturbed, for something to happen that never will.  
  
John waves his white flag. Let it be over. _Give Sherlock back_ , he whispers to himself, _and I’ll take him away somewhere far, I’ll look after him, I’ll keep him._  
  
The murderers can have their bodies, the mad men can play their games and win and destroy - the whole of London can fucking _burn_ for all he cares.  It’s not the place he knows without Sherlock in it.  
  
His tea is long cold but he swallows it anyway. John looks into the empty of his cup and squints, searches for the dregs of a battlefield.  
  
  
( **VI**  
  
Sherlock Holmes is a genius, a highly functioning sociopath, a goddamn _idiot_ , really.  
  
But for John Watson, for _John_ , he’s willing to be a soldier.)

  


  



End file.
